


Getting to the truth.

by mypassionfortrash



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: Battinson, But I'm so here for millennial batman, Emo Batman, F/M, Ok so this is garbage, Robert Pattinson - Freeform, a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypassionfortrash/pseuds/mypassionfortrash
Summary: You’re Bruce’s assistant, but more than that, you’re his friend – his only friend. So, naturally, when he arrives at his own party injured and looking worse for wear, you’re worried. But there’s more than one truth-bomb in store for you!
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Reader
Kudos: 24





	Getting to the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this, had every intention of writing it like that really awful film 'Secretary' or something and then I was just like, 'ugh I can't write smut right now' so here, have some nice lil Battinson fluff. I love a side of humour with my hurt and millennial Batman is gonna ruin all our lives.

“Why am I organising a ball for all of Gotham, when Bruce won’t show up?” you sighed, turning to Alfred.

“Listen, I’m just the butler. How am I supposed to know what Master Bruce gets up to at night?”

“You live here, Alfred.”

Alfred leaned in close, peering at you from above his round spectacles. “And you’re his very beloved assistant.”

“Don’t remind me,” you huffed. “They’re only showing up for him, you know. They don’t care about the Wayne Foundation. Orphanages and education. He’s the richest man in Gotham, and no one’s seen him in years. The press would kill for a glimpse too.”

Alfred was fond of you. He always had been. He reckoned you brought a little bit of light to the place the second you walked into Wayne manor, fresh out of college. So, you knew his words were sincere when he spoke, with a gentle pat on the arm. “Well I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

“Good enough for me,” you said, turning towards the door. “I’m going home to get ready. There’s a new Dior suit hanging in the wardrobe. Tell the boss to wear it, will you? And remind him to tuck his shirt in. That’s if he decides to show up.”

It was a night of your own making, and you watched it unfold from the lobby. Checking off names. Stopping drunken high society snobs from vomiting into 17th century vases. Directing everyone and their dog towards the bathrooms. But, for the most part, you found yourself alone, dancing with yourself in the cracks of pale moonlight that streamed like silver ribbons on to the sparkling checkerboard floor. No sign of your boss.

Until something caught you off guard. Quiet, shuffling footsteps over by the study at the foot of the staircase. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, hobbling, ascending. Step by step.

“Hey! You can’t go up there!” you called.

The figure moved faster, breaking into a pained jog.

With nothing else to do, you threw off your heels and sprinted after the intruder. Taking the stairs two at a time. They were heading for Bruce’s bedroom. No one, not even the various women he liked to entertain – not even you, as close as you were – went in there. He was a tremendously private man.

Finally, reaching out, you managed to grab their arm.

The figure flinched away in pain, then they turned to you.

“Bruce?” you gasped, feeling your heart race at the sight of him. His dark hair, unkempt and dishevelled; jet black rings around his eyes. His whole body seemed to tremble and heave. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. Then he broke out into a witter. “Go back downstairs, I’ll be there in a minute, I’d hate to miss out on all of your hard work. I just need to–”

But you pulled him back, swiping your thumbs through the muck beneath his eyes. They were blue, but they always looked so dark. Like a pained void. “You need to clean yourself up. Let me help you.”

“You don’t need to see me like this. Go and enjoy your evening. I’m speaking to you as your boss. Please. Go.”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne.” You straightened up at his words and turned away. But before you reached the stairs, he called your name. If looks could kill, Bruce might have been a heap on the floor. But those eyes, again, dulled any hurt you felt about the distance between you.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

You couldn’t look him in the eye. It was a battle even just to thank him politely for the compliment. And your legs shook all the way back to the lobby, through a strange mix of worry and giddiness.

You kept yourself to yourself for twenty minutes, alone with your panic, before Bruce returned. Gone was the darkness around his eyes, and his hair was neatly slicked back. He cut a strong, proud figure as he walked towards you in his suit. Even if he was sporting a limp and clutching his side with every step.

“I thought I told you to enjoy the party?” he smiled.

“Sorry, Bruce. There’s just no one to watch the door and show people where the…” You trailed off as he gently took your arm, leading you through into the reception hall. A warmth radiated from him, soothing but stoic. Nothing like the frantic panic from before.

“Help me get through this,” he muttered as the room fell silent. All eyes on you and Bruce.

The party quickly resumed; music played and the chatter of the guests around you echoed through the hall. Occasionally, beneficiaries of the Wayne Foundation would introduce themselves to your boss, or business bigwigs would try to bend his ear about trade deals and contracts and bureaucracy. But one thing was constant throughout the whole ordeal – Bruce’s hand never once left its place on your waist.

You could feel it there. The way his fingers would trail through the material of your dress as people talked and talked and talked to him. And the tension, when he balled his fingers up into a fist when faced with people that he just didn’t have time for. All those little cues forced the question from your lips. “Would you like to dance?”

You knew he didn’t dance. He hated it, in fact. But in that moment, the gratitude was evident on his small, weak smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Something was wrong, though. He flinched when your hand draped over his shoulder. His gait was unsteady. And no amount of makeup could disguise the bruise underneath his left eye. You kept glancing up at it as the two of you daintily spun circles around the room. And he kept glancing down at you, knowing now that you had noticed.

The song ended and Bruce’s hands dropped to his sides. “I think I’ve had enough for one night,” he said with another defeated smile. “People might begin to talk.”

“I think we need to talk, Bruce.”

His eyes darted over his surroundings before they returned to you; his lower lip pinched between his teeth.

“Please,” you pressed.

“Come with me.”

You and Bruce slumped into two cosy armchairs in his study, with a roaring fire, a coffee table and two glasses of scotch between you. “Don’t think Alfred and I haven’t noticed you sneaking off all the time.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and stared at the flames. “I’m your boss, remember?”

“You’re also my friend. And you also looked like crap earlier. Who did that to you?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, shifting in his chair, letting out an audible groan.

“They obviously hurt you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“No you can’t. I think me being here says that much. C’mere,” you said, beckoning him.

“When you’re right you’re right.” Bruce might have been your boss, but he still knew better than to defy you; he slumped to his knees and shuffled over to you.

“Let me take a look at the damage.”

For the second time that night, Bruce recoiled from your touch as you gently pulled up his shirt, exposing a galaxy of bruises along his ribcage and a large, makeshift dressing on his lower abdomen. “Easy,” he said, swatting your hand away.

“How did you get that?” You peeled it away from his skin as gingerly as you could manage. Rather than concern, your voice grew cold. Serious, even. “What have you been doing?”

“I’m a little disappointed,” Bruce remarked through gritted teeth.

“How so?” you asked, running your fingertips over the slap-dash stitches that held together the vivid red gash.

“I thought this was something else.”

“Something’s eating you, though. And who did these stitches?”

“I did,” Bruce said, his jaw clenched.

“Can I redo them?”

Bruce was growing breathless by the time you finished inspecting his wound. “First aid kit’s in the top drawer of my desk,” he wheezed.

“Rubbing alcohol, too?”

“It’s all there.” Bruce wearily watched from the floor as your pale outline trailed its way across the study. His heart growing faster. “You really do look beautiful,” he said, his voice quiet and spiked with hope. He couldn’t meet your eyes when you looked up from rummaging in the drawer, so he stared down at the rug, finding interest there instead, with one hand clawing through his hair. “What was it that you wanted to ask me, by the way?”

“I really don’t like repeating myself, so cut the bullshit, Bruce.” You were so matter of fact, breezing back over to him and joining him on the floor. “I wanted to know where you go at night.”

“If I told you the truth, then you’d have me shipped off to Arkham.”

You poured some of the alcohol on to a cotton swab, keeping your eyes on Bruce. There was always something so defeated about him when the two of you were alone, that no one else ever got to see. And something always got in the way of him being honest with you. “Want to bet on that? How do you know I’m not already considering it?”

Bruce almost chuckled, but the sting from his side made him draw a sharp breath. He studied you out the corner of his eye. “Do you really… want to know?”

“It’d be nice to not have to spend my evenings with Alfred, who worries like a mother hen.”

Bruce choked out his next string of words in quick succession. “Can I tell you something first?”

“Before I cut you open?” you quipped.

“Preferably.”

Before Bruce reached the end of that word, you had already snipped through his self-administered stitches, revealing just how deep the wound actually was. Your feeble attempt at being jovial quickly switched to a reserved kind of worry.

“You’re the first person who’s ever really understood me. You never pry or say too much. You’re always there. And you have such a low tolerance for bullshit. You don’t coddle or bow down because I’m Bruce Wayne. Plus it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t in their sixties or who knew my father…”

You hummed in acknowledgement, neatly weaving the wire through Bruce’s skin. Too focused on the job at hand to really get what he meant. Until his fingertips brushed over your jawline.

“You’re my only friend in this godforsaken world.”

“Besides Alfred,” the pair of you said in unison.

Biting back a fit of laughter, you stroked his cheek and he keened, like an animal craving affection. “What are you trying to say, Bruce?”

Every fibre of Bruce’s being tensed with renewed panic and a tinge of awkwardness. His wide eyes searched for something, anything, to focus on, as long as it wasn’t you. “I’m…I guess what I’m trying to say is that… I’m–“

With a mental _fuck it_ , you threw caution to the wind. You couldn’t stand hearing him bumble on like this. Closing the gap, your lips crashed on to his. He tasted like scotch and cigars, and this much of him was never going to be enough for you. Just when your hands tangled through his hair, Bruce pulled away.

“I’m the Batman.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Bruce nodded.

“I would’ve settled for ‘I’m in love with you’ you know.”

He sighed, sitting back so casually now that the difficult part was over. “That, too.”

“You can’t lie to me anymore, you know that, don’t you?”

He nodded again.

“So,” you said, glancing around the study, “which bookcase is actually a revolving door?”

“Huh?” Bruce asked, pulling down his shirt.

“Secret lair… a bat cave, if you will.”

“Oh,” he said with a chuckle. Then he pointed towards the bookcase behind you. “It’s that one. Pull out Ulysses and it’ll… spin right round. Be careful not to let the bats out, though. They’re kind of like my pets.”

“Fuck you, Bruce.”

“I can show you if you want?” he said, hopefully, as he scrambled to his feet.

“I’ll settle for another kiss. And you getting some rest.”

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“What, the bat part or the other part?”

Bruce chuckled and planted a small, soft kiss to your forehead. “Both.”

“I had my suspicions. One thing’s for sure though…”

“What?”

“You might need a few pointers with your eyeliner.”


End file.
